Prelude To A Memory Already Felt
Some poems talk about what happens when the architecture of a life, carefully forecasted, meticulously assembled, tilts. From a cup of coffee. From a hard talk. From the kind of presence that reorganizes everything.
This poem started as a love story and ended up as a study in how recognition rewires circuitry. As vulnerability survives scrutiny with a hinge moment: the mirror breaks. The search ends. And then something arrives. Some would call it emotional realism. Others would call it infrastructure. I call it the moment you stop running from feeling and start processing it.
This poem is for those who’ve stopped performing. Who’ve stopped marketing their pain. Who’ve started building a cornerstone. If you’re here for spectacle, keep walking. If you’re here for edifice, stay. This is a dispatch from the edge of intimacy and survival. A state where time folds; nostalgia precedes experience; and where love becomes a memory of something not yet lived but already felt.
Prelude To A Memory Already Felt
I didn’t plan for this. Didn’t forecast the tremble in my voice when you laugh like you mean it. Didn’t expect the architecture of my life to tilt -quietly, then all at once- because you didn’t show up with thunder, but with coffee and hard talk. I used to believe love was a trick of language. Dead poets, clever manipulators, selling mirrors to children. I bought one. Then I broke it. Then I stopped looking. You didn’t sneak in. You arrived. Between your voice and mine, something metabolized. Between your soul and mine, something governed. Between your fear and mine, something stayed. I fall in love with you every time you say you miss me. No performance. No effect. With the kind of recognition that rewires a nervous system instead. That makes me giggle like I’m malfunctioning. That makes me tremble like I’m finally alive. I’ve seen your face in the shadows, makeup running, tears dyed black. And when I did, my heart melted. Not out of pity, but because your anima showed itself. And when you saw my pain, you dropped your guard. You saw the beauty I hold. Not the curated kind. The kind that survives scrutiny. This love isn’t linear. It doesn’t obey the laws of the material world. It folds time. Every moment is a prelude to nostalgia, a memory we’ll feel today for something that hasn’t happened yet but already feels like it did. There is no future. There’s only the sense that we’ve always been here, finishing each other’s sentences, falling in love when we’re not trying, and finally trying because we’ve stopped running from feeling.
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That's lovely! And you're spot on, it's a poem of what true long lasting love looks like. It's for you 😉
Lovely